


The Heart is Deceitful Above All

by Naphyla



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, One-Sided Relationship, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-18 22:59:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naphyla/pseuds/Naphyla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He had imagined victory to be many things, but never once did he think it would taste so bland, so flat against his tongue. </em><br/> <br/>Even with his limbs bound and paralyzed with poison, Loki thinks of nothing but his escape. And he would do anything to have his freedom back, even if it meant giving up what lies closest to his heart. Post-Avengers and TWD.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Carrion

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the material in this fic came from the MCU, but I have borrowed from the original mythology as well as the comic verse. Copious amounts of liberty was taken with the these materials in the creation of this story though: you have been warned.
> 
> (Edit: It's been revealed in the movies that the Tesseract and Loki's scepter are really actually Infinity Stones. I may or may not end up disregarding this piece of information.)
> 
> A huge thank you to enaskoritsi (xxKayTayxx), who was ever patient in explaining to me any questions I had. If you spot any mistakes, they are mine alone. 
> 
> The title comes from Jeremiah 17:9 ("The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?"). I'm using it rather liberally here.

_In the blur of serenity, where did everything get lost?_  
_The flowers of naïveté buried in a layer of frost_

_A fool’s devotion swallowed up in empty space_  
_The tears of regret frozen to the side of his face_

_The smell of sunshine, I remember sometimes_

_Thought he lost everything; then he lost a whole lot more_

—— Nine Inch Nails, “I Look Forward to Joining You, Finally”

 

He fell watching him. Watching the splash of glorious red as it splayed against the Asgardian night sky. Watching the hurling storm of electric blue striking against itself to light thunderous brows in all the wrong angles. The proud Golden Prince appeared no bigger than a child, arms outstretched to grasp what he could not hold. All that the Thunderer once was — god, warrior, brother — he alone had taken away. The Trickster would think back someday and rejoice.

He had imagined victory to be many things, but never once did he think it would taste so bland, so flat against his tongue. Before he could sear this moment into memory, it had already dissolved, leaving only the bitterest of bile trailing down his throat.

He drew his lids shut, and tried to take comfort in his once-brother’s pain.

He drew his lids shut, but all he could see were haunting eyes and bloodied locks and silent lips mimicking the sound of his name.

He fell, eyes closed, still watching him.

 ***

The soft touch of cool liquid jolts Loki from his slumber. The dampness against his cheeks slides with patience, burning his skin raw as it treads slowly, purposefully. He need not open his eyes to envision the creature on the other side, fixed atop the alcove by the Allfather. The dripping poison begins to lick a lazy path down his neck and slither across his chest, branding them with sharp prickles and dull aches. The scent of acid and burning flesh infuses his nostrils, but the God of Mischief pays no heed to the eerie smells and the piercing agony of his own rotting flesh. He takes comfort in the pain that sets him ablaze, calls on it, feeds it, and embraces it as old kin.

He tilts his head forward, feels the bite of metal around his neck, and watches with childish fascination as the pearly white of his skin pulls apart and collapses in on tissues that lay beneath. The dark, red liquid crawls from under the crimson trenches, oozing from his wounds aimlessly with every laboured breath. His body collects it, holds it in its nooks and crannies until they brim with his blood. Only then does Loki allow himself to gaze upon his captor.

It is a thing of beauty—a white serpent with ruby orbs that hang just inches above his belly. Its translucent scales glisten as it flexes from side to side, catching what little light these caves have to offer. Loki beckons it with his gaze, inviting it to quench the thirst that has plagued them both for the last hundred years. He could sense the battle of simultaneous yet opposing desires in the rhythmic sway of its enormous frame. This toggling between duty and instinct is fiercer today than any other, and it is only a matter of time before the delicate balance tips towards the inevitable. All that dwell in Asgard are bound by Oath to their King; but when the King takes, he cares not for the will of his subjects, only their sworn loyalty. Loki knows too well that he is not the only prisoner among these barren rocks.

When the serpent, at last, descends from its guarding-place, the God of Mischief is unsurprised, only too happy to seal the gap between them with an arching back. It finds its way to the glaring welts that stretch from shoulder to shoulder and drinks with relentless hunger. He winces at the touch of cold, slippery membrane against ruptured skin. Even with a voice coarse and splintered from disuse, his words, buttered with praises and sighs, come easily enough. He lets his keeper pry him apart and drain him — lets himself become the conquest that he so earnestly sought once upon a time.

The ivory coat of the great serpent grows dull and heavy, smeared in the crooked, red shadows of his essence. When his half-open wounds shut themselves to the creature’s seeking tongue, knitting together to protect what little still remains his, the snarling hiss of dissatisfaction would slice through them as a hot knife would its enemy.

As he lies on his back, Loki thinks he hears the rhyming clicks of twin beaks and the soft murmur of parting air around wings taking flight. In this bleak serenity, he waits, as he has waited all these years to learn the truth of his destiny, for only then might he one day claim what he has been promised.

***

The weight of Gungnir pressed against his fingertips — the great anchor of Asgard that has seen an eon of rulers come and go. He knew it was only temporary, its true master would rouse from his sleep soon enough. Yet, even recognizing the impermanence of his reign, the Trickster clung onto this glimpse of power, of alliance, of acceptance, cherishing his gift with tender thoughts that have not visited his mind in he remembered not how long.

It was easy at first. The memories sang to him from every corner of the palace, slipping through the cracks of time to show him the evidence of loyalty, of trust. Of love. He remembered one too many afternoons spent in the company of tomes and scrolls, ink-blotted hands clasping the simple joys of newly-weld seiðr . He remembered his heart galloping in steady couplets one long summer's day when calloused fingers wrapped around his own, leading him to the treasures of Asgard few knew, and fewer saw. He remembered staring into the stormy blue that is Thor as the Thunderer draped the crimson cloak over his naked body that bore the seed of his shameful defeat, and swept the paler form from the ruins that is yet Valhalla . He remembered it all — plucking the fruits of happier days to feed himself in slow, careful mouthfuls. But it wasn't enough.

There were remembrances of another sort that prowled the halls of the citadel: beasts made bitter and sinister by years spent brewing in the shadows. They summoned him to their realm, and made empty the well of happier thoughts. The grime of humiliation fell thick upon his ears when he was reminded of whispers echoing in the wee-hours of the night, once soft with sweetness in seek of his council but spoken now with poisoned tongues. Loki, Prince of Lies; Loki, Master of Disguise; Loki Silvertongue; Loki Ergison . In his clumsy tricks and silly pranks they had seen the glimmer of malice and deceit, and he had let them. He tucked away the half-crumpled cry that is every child's right and hid it behind a permanent, devious smile. Hid it between the gentle folds of his beating heart where no one would come looking.

(No one did, of course. No one ever does.)

From time to time, he watched Odin watching him, his all-seeing eye a rippling blue-grey veiled from all. And the exchange of acknowledgement was enough: he was the quiet son who fought his battles with intellect — with artful illusions and well-crafted lies. He was meant to wield mischief as his will; to entrap freedom with chaos; to play rules against words, and play them with passion. He consoled himself, cradling the warmth of another's understanding, and was content. For a time.

When the Allfather's one-eyed gaze fell on Thor, he saw a father's pride brimming in dark waters, braiding soft wrinkles on a face hardened with prudent wisdom, and all that he had been privileged, all that was promised long ago, was undone in the passing of a glance.

_Only one of you could ascend to the throne, but both of you were born to be kings._

The God of Mischief had seen and sold his fair share of lies, but never one so prodigious, so monstrous as this. For all the love and affection the Allfather had claimed to bestow them both, the Odinsons were and only ever shall be equals in name alone. They were but words. Words without substance.

Irony fell heavy on his shoulders as he drew his true heritage from the depth of his being. Feverish blue breeched the pale skin of his cheeks and laid siege to his brows the sigil of his enemies. The emerald of his borrowed eyes bled scarlet to weep the death of his Aesir past. Son of Laufey, the runt of Jotunheim. He turned to this sickly hue, this abominable plague, and snarled.

He might be Loki Laufey-born, but he was Loki, Odin's son. He was Loki, of Asgard, burdened with glorious purpose.

 

He would later journey to the Forbidden Realm and walk amongst the forlorn glaciers and gaping craters that was his birthright. He would entice the King of Jotunheim, full of murderous intent, to the golden palace where Odin lay, only to have him slain. He would unleash the Bifrost on his entire race, and no remorse would pass the recesses of his mind.

He looked to the Spear of Eternity that he had once held with fervent force, and felt neither triumph nor glory. It was a clumsy length in his palms now — an uneasy consolation for the battles he had lost long before they had even begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for dropping by! 
> 
> Below are just a few notes:
> 
> 1\. Seiðr is Old Norse for ancient sorcery.
> 
> 2\. Valhalla is where the spirits of the Gods reside after death. This particular mention references Loki's attempt to lure Svaðifari away by turning into a mare in order to distract the horse and its master from completing the walls of Valhalla. Like usual, the plan backfired and Loki ends up pregnant and gives birth to Sleipnir, Odin’s prized mount.
> 
> 3\. Ergi is Old Norse for unmanliness.


	2. Träumerei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Darkness, he discovers, is gentle in its decimation._
> 
> Loki falls victim to his reminiscences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a particularly long chapter I'm afraid. I'm aware that this particular piece is very slow in the coming, and I apologize. It doesn't help that I write like a snail. It probably also doesn't help that I delete more words than I write them....
> 
> Once again, I have enaskoritsi (xxKayTayxx) to thank for her wonderful beta-ing. Any mistakes you spot are mine alone.
> 
> The chapter title is borrowed from Schumann's work of the same title. It comes from his collection "Kinderszenen" in which he attempts to capture his childhood. Träumerei means something along the lines of daydream (I'm not a German speaker so please correct me if I'm wrong).

_We have lingered in the chambers of the sea_  
 _By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown_  
 _Till human voices wake us, and we drown_  
  
—— T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

 

Now and then, the serpent rocks with restless craving, becoming but a slave to the phantom rush of exhilaration humming through its veins, well-remembered like the lingering taste of sweets against a child's lips. Some days, Loki plays its voracious donor, begging for cool venom and probing tongue with welcoming limbs and wonton sighs; on others, he is ever quick to revive the disobliging captive, screaming and thrashing against his shackles as rapacious fangs plow deep into ragged flesh. Yet always, it pleases the God of Mischief to indulge in this game of vice: treading between imprisonment and liberty, then relinquishing both as the snake-beast takes from him. He would ride the pain through the night, until he finds himself at the brink of darkness and feels it no more.

Only, tonight is different. He senses not the shroud of sleek oblivion drowning his vision, but the velvet caress of long forgotten sunlight bearing comfort against cold, sunken cheeks.

They are ancient dreams he dreams: relics buried beneath the dust of one too many dreams untold. Yet, the years have not made their mark upon these tokens of happy, blissful innocence, for they spring from a soul that shone too bright, too young. They are dreams woven when the world was still whole. When faithful vows and honest words rendered no fear nor hate, no hurt nor betrayal.

He dreams of Frigga's garden, where the old ash sprung. A thousand branches and a thousand leaves stretched from its arcane trunk – but still a fledgling, he was told, for the Mother Tree spanned, unseen, to every corner where life would breed. So ordinary, this ash tree was, for there were many like it sprinkled across the citadel. But the godling had worshipped it all the same. He spent his younger days pillowed against its silver bark, breathing to the rhythm of wind chiming softly against sprouting buds. And in the heat of hotter days, the tomes on hand would lie forgotten in his lap as he fell dozing in the swaying shade – until he awoke again to leaves burning gold and orange in the falling sun.

But in between the solitude was the steady footfall of thunder, heavy and proud as it came knocking against the bearings of his shelter. And even though the younger Prince so disliked the notion of sharing, he had allowed the Thunder God free reign of his haven. In those narrow moments, they were themselves and yet, were not themselves. Here, when the battles and quests suspended in time, the Warrior would set aside his blundering ego, ever meticulous as he cleaved away the silence and took its place. The Liesmith, in turn, would submit to the whims of the Thunderer, allowing himself to be coaxed and cooed with clumsy words from the maze of his mind. Here, he would shed his armor, peeling away the cold veneer of impartiality and false propriety to wear his heart on his sleeve, and no schemes nor lies would follow him hither.

Here beneath this ash, they were simply Loki and Thor: brothers and equals.

He dreams of his youth spent lavishly on pretty tricks plotted and played, pleased to have brought awe folding and unfolding between his sibling's brows. He dreams of evenings where they lay upon the grass, reciting tales of journeys sought as they watched the glorious silver-bronze of Valaskjálf shining from afar. He dreams of half-hearted teasing remarks of a missing hammer suddenly found that cost the Thunder God more than once his sparring match . But above all, he dreams of his brother's smile. Dreams of fresh creases stretched taut against stubbled cheeks, and perfect teeth bared freely for all to see. Of sheepish grins and thunderous laughs; of bloodied smirks, battle-wrought; of lips tucked into an easy arc, beckoning with quests and requests with words unsaid.

—Brother

Then he remembers, suddenly, that he was his brother no more.

And Loki wakes.

 

Darkness, he discovers, is gentle in its decimation. In darkness, his senses rust. The stench of blood and sweat becomes blunted, almost plain; his craving for sustenance diminishes by day. Even time becomes slick and hazy, hours blending into days and weeks. He knows not how many moons have waxed and waned, only that his nails grow long and sharp; his once well-groomed hair now wild and unruly, sprawling in greasy tangles across barren rocks.

Yet, in this cave of endless nights, he dreams still—always of fond blue eyes and gold-weaved locks and lips singing the song of his name. For but hours, he returns to an exiled past and, with an addled mind, embraces affection when it should be denied. In this parallel realm, the calloused palms are always soft, the sonorous voice, always kind. He leans into sun-kissed arms to be held and prodded and touched, and falls asleep to the sound of tender vows. And when storms befall, the rain tastes always of sunshine.

But when he wakes, he remembers, too late, that it is poisoned honey-wine he swallows night after night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, the notes:
> 
> 1\. Valaskjálf is one of many of Odin’s halls. I'm going to pretend it's the shiny triangular one that always gets shown in the movies.
> 
> 2\. Those familiar with the mythology may have caught the hammer reference. In the Poetic Edda, Thor had his hammer stolen by Thrym. Thor basically had to pretend to be Freyja (in a wedding dress and all) to steal back Mjöllnir from Thrym. As always, the best (and most embarassing) plans are obviously Loki’s.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


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